The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 1

DAY 0 — March, 2007

"Countdown to potato land"

When Jim returned my call about his ad for potato sorters, he didn't know that I had been watching the classifieds for years, wondering about the ads for unskilled laborers like "cheese handler," "wrangler," "milker," "assistant sausage maker" and one of my favorites, "exotic dancer (no experience necessary)."

On the phone, he explained that they have canvas sides on the conveyor that they can pull down to keep it warmer when the wind comes up. He said there would be two coffee breaks and a lunch break. He said that it paid $10 per hour. And sometimes the girls bring baked goods, he said. I think it's quaint, not offensive, that he calls women girls, but I realize that's because in real life, I have a choice.

At his invitation, I drove out to visit the farm, because unemployed people who quit their desk jobs have time to do that kind of thing. Churchhill is a traditional Dutch farming community between Belgrade and Amsterdam (Montana). It consists of a church on a hill, surrounded by farms whose inhabitants take their churching very much to heart.

There was a tall, pink-faced blonde man in the doorway of the house whose Wranglers fit him just wrong enough to make me assume he was hard to buy pants for. He didn't introduce himself, just held the door and said, good naturedly, "You're gonna get grilled."

This was Jim's brother, Todd, a partner in the business. Jim was sitting at a dark wood table in the immaculate kitchen. I introduced myself and shook his hand, which, predictably, was exactly the size and color of a small ham. His fingers look like Ballpark Franks. I probably stared as I wondered about the size of his wedding ring.

He looked sort of like Donald Trump on steroids. Like a Donald Trump with better hair, who had eaten good healthy food and worked hard all his life and grown big and respectable.

While Jim told me more about the job and asked a few questions, people came and went and asked him questions and the cell phone rang. His wife, a pretty, thin lady named Janice, (I think) popped in and reminded him that the Ag Appreciation Dinner was at 5:30. It was exactly like meeting with the CEO of a large company, except that after Todd took off with someone who appeared to be an electrician, Jim took the time to tell me about each of his kids and show me their pictures on the kitchen sideboard.

His daughter Doreen loved horses, but she was a heck of an athlete, went to state in volleyball and basketball, and just got a job coaching at a high school in California. Her husband is a youth pastor, if I remember right. His other daughter had cancer as a young girl, but was doing well now. She is a hairstylist (or was that his daughter?). One of his sons learned organic agriculture techniques in college that they were now applying to their potato culture. The other one is 29 and not married yet. I also learned a lot about the two exchange students they had hosted, one from Spain and one from Taiwan.

Then he took me to the picture window in the living room, to point out the red potato sheds where I would go on my first day, and his son's place, just down the road. Looking through the glass, I was amazed that the picket fence that signified the end of the potato field and the beginning of the yard was literally an arm's length from the window. Standing in that room was like floating in an ark on a sea of potato fields.

I promised to come at 8:15 a.m. on the first day. I was so excited on the drive home that I had to call my daughter to tell her how much I loved my potato family.

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The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.